


Lucia

by BlackRose



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Death in Childbirth, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stillbirth, Suicidal Thoughts, again I blame the discord for this, set during S3E03 'The Searchers'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackRose/pseuds/BlackRose
Summary: Losing Christopher brings things boiling to the surface that Buck had long repressed.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Original Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 217





	Lucia

It was happening again. 

The moment he looked around and realized Christopher was missing, Buck was instantly torn back in time. 

He met her mother on the beach in Buenos Aires; she was the sister of the local surf instructor and scuba guide. He was just a lovestruck dropout making a pittance tending bar. Her name was Angelina, and his heart was hers instantly. His Spanish was fragmented at best, but she knew enough English to make it clear that the attraction, the desire---the love---was mutual. By day they walked together in the Rose Garden; by night she perched on the bar and watched him sling drinks, dark eyes laughing at the drunk tourists' clumsy come-ons. They couldn't get married immediately---she wouldn't be 18 for a year---but by the time his visa was up for renewal they were living together in his tiny apartment. It was a maze of paperwork to go from his guest visa into a citizenship application, but he wanted to provide for her anyway. Make her an honest woman, live the rest of their lives together on this beautiful beach. A recruitment ad in the local paper seemed to offer the answer. Navy SEALS were based nearby; it was the kind of job that let him be the hero he'd always wanted to be, while still providing for his wife and the family they intended to start. 

By the time his tryouts came around, Angelina was seven months pregnant. She dropped him off at the base and drew wolf whistles as she kissed him for luck. He intended to make his baby girl proud. Her name would be Lucia, the light of his life. Fueled by the thought of his new family, he breezed through every trial and test and fearlessly attacked every last obstacle. He was video chatting with Angelina when she suddenly flinched and mentioned having pain. Her face soon paled in horror as it became clear she was bleeding heavily. He raced to her; by the time he got to the hospital she was in surgery and rapid Spanish was flying around that he could only catch snatches of. Instead of a baby crying he just kept hearing screeching alarms. His heart froze when even those stopped. He barely heard the doctor's explanation---her hips were too narrow; the baby had been breech and become distressed; she'd bled too much as they tried to widen the gap and free Lucia. It didn't matter. The only thing he knew or saw, was that still fragile form covered with a bloody sheet. Someone placed a little cooling bundle in his arms, and he looked down and saw her, for the first and last time. Lucia was perfect, a little angel with wisps of black hair like her mother's. A silent little doll swaddled in a pink blanket. Buck rocked her, feeling his soul leak from his eyes. He sang to her, brokenly, the song Angelina had taught him. Some old love song about sleeping peacefully under the stars. He kissed her little head, and her mother's lips, and told them both how much he loved them. Then he gave her back. 

In the hallway he traded his daughter's body for his rifle, and walked woodenly past his COs as if they didn't exist. What did those jacked-up douches matter? What did anyone matter, anymore? They found him standing on the cliffs staring at the stars, a pistol under his chin. Trying to work up the courage. He got kicked out for that. A SEAL couldn't be emotional that way; couldn't let themselves grow attached to people. He couldn't turn his feelings off. So he left Argentina, wandered the US for a while. He did odd jobs, slept around a lot---just experimenting, to see if someday someone else's kiss could replace the flavor of Angelina's, or if he could bury the pain so deep in drinking and anonymous sex that it no longer split him open every time he was alone. The answer, he discovered, was no. Each time his beloved whispered in his ears, or the voice of the baby girl who never got to grow up haunted his sleep, he'd go out and get a tattoo. He'd let an inky needle jab itself into the places he wanted to cut, let the artist wipe away the blood that would have otherwise been pouring out into the sink. It was the only time he could cry. 

Fast forward two years. 

He joined the 118; messed up, nearly got kicked out, met had a shallow fling with a lovely woman called Abby---then met Eddie Diaz, and all in a rush his world had color again. He remembered how to love. How to want to matter. How to desire to be his best self for someone, because they deserved the best of everything. Lucia would be Christopher's age by then; every time he couldn't help imagining them playing together, him teaching her how Legos worked and she teaching him the song about the elephant swinging on the spiderweb. Christ but he loved that kid. 

And he lost him. That sweet, innocent little boy, he failed him and let the devil's water take him. Everywhere he looked he could almost see a little brown hand struggling to stay above the water, gurgling out 'Daddy, help!!' There was no hesitation; his body moved on its own to launch him off the truck and into that evil tide. He kept going, his legs rapidly going numb from the cold water, the force of the waves battering at him. If he could save someone, he did, but his focus was on finding Christopher. He didn't realizing it immediately, but he'd screamed himself hoarse calling for the boy. No answer, save for a little pair of red glasses kicked up by that horrible flood. Mocking him. 

By the time it was dark his strength and soul were flagging. He'd been searching all day; no sign of Christopher alive or drowned. He knew he was bleeding but also knew he didn't care. The physical was remote, almost nonexistent. He had hardly any breath to tell Eddie, to somehow explain how badly he failed his son----when a miracle occurred. That precious little boy was brought back to them, alive, and all at once the last drops of adrenaline drained from Buck's body. He could feel his blood pressure dropping, even as myriad hands reached out to steady him and ease him onto a stretcher. His focus was on the Diazes, even as a tiny voice whispered to him, 'You did good, Daddy. He's ok now. You couldn't help me, but you saved him. We love you.'

Eddie came back to them, Chris bundled in his arms, and immediately the boy reached for Buck. No matter that he was drenched, bloody and smeared with god-only-knows-what. Buck took him, cradled him, kissing the top of his head. 

"Shhhh, it's okay baby. Daddy's here. You're safe now."


End file.
